Aftermath
by sansone
Summary: A post-episode fic for "After the Storm". Kate has a nightmare. "There's a certain beauty in darkness, in the ambivalence of shapes and forms as anything and everything exists solely as what you make it out to be."


**AN: **I wrote this a while ago, but rediscovered it just recently. Angstityangstangst. Perhaps someone will enjoy reading ;D  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. SIGH. Not even a final draft of my paper that is due Friday.

* * *

She is done being afraid. She is _done _looking over her shoulder after each step, in fear of a wild Maddox appearing. But the thing about words is, they don't actually hold that power, the power to obliterate what underlies the livid gaze, even when actions support them, leaving a scar that will house remembrance and infuse terror. _The memories are gone, the aftershocks live on. _Behind brave words is either conviction or hope of such. Still, the reality is often a discrepancy of sorts; what is said doesn't necessarily correspond to what is felt. And then, the aftershocks come. They tend to come in the form of coffee in the early morning, as a shivering body seeks comfort from a blanket, the shoulders gently draped, but it's only a contact of fabric and skin.

This time it's different because she's not alone, which should, by all means, make it better, make her feel better. Only it doesn't. She can feel his fingertips on her waist, the weight of his arm warming her body and making his presence tangible. But despite the proximity, she needs distance because she doesn't want to wake him up, doesn't want him to worry, doesn't want him to _take her someplace safe_, not now at least, when she is shivering under his touch, the head count of every breath striving to return the balance, and yet the reality of it leaves her gasping for air. Until it becomes unbearable and she slips under his arm, the movement simple and ghostlike, and in any other case, it would look like she is running away before the morning comes.

It's only after she leaves the room that she begins to crave that very contact which made the overexposure to heat acceptable because it was keeping them close. The paper thin fabric of his shirt brushes against her collarbones, the lightness of cotton hardly able to keep her warm as the night air freely breezes in and out, the only armor against it being her own mindset – if she could simply relax and let the cold pass through her, the shuddering might disappear. Kate grasps at the edges – _fuck_ – of her sleeves, her arms crossed in front of her chest, the only protective gear she can come up with before closing the damn window.

It's only a glance – but a glance that reveals a whole lot of nothing, of distance and of thin air stacking upon itself in pursuit of the pavement. It's on instinct that she turns, facing the darkness of the kitchen, with shadowy appliances hiding in corners, and her heart rate speeding up to the sound of her shallow breaths. But the motion is quick, and in an instant, she is the only strand of grass in a deserted field when the wind blows, and her vision goes black. With her shoulder blades pressed hard against the wall, Kate slides down to sit on the floor.

She is numb to the coldness of the tiles, numb to the sharp pain in her chest. What she needs to focus on is regaining control over her breathing, her fingers trembling as she fidgets with the buttons of his shirt – _damn_, she can trace his perfume, and coffee – before she rests her hand over her heart, the skin to skin contact striving to discard the overwhelming sense of helplessness. But it turns out to be pointless; it's hard to soothe anxiety with the tremor of your own fingertips.

She has to admit it, even if it's _only_ to herself. She needs him. Right now. She wants to have his arms around her, have his palms pressed against her back, fingers spread apart to encompass an extra inch, as he pulls her closer, his heartbeat playing a melody she'd rather follow than harmonize to, because _that_ has already taken its toll, the fast paced rhythm of her heart additionally causing her to panic. Or is it the other way around? _Castle. _She breathes his name, aware of the fact that he is sleeping and if she could just muster up some energy to get up and go back –

* * *

When she opens her eyes, it's the dim light of dawn slipping through the blinds that startles her. _Damn it. _In between breaths, and heavy curses, she has lost track of time. What appeared to be minutes is half an hour in reality. Kate reaches for anything that would help her drag herself up, fingers gripping the edge of the window sill, and it's a tug of war, the weight of her own body being the opposing team, the enemy. The enemy that sways forward, even when she is up on her feet, the overbearing feeling of dizziness stealing another set of curses, which escape her, textureless.

But it is bound to get better; she just needs to make coffee or something. After all that's why she came here in the first place. For the next couple of minutes, it's another struggle with quivering fingertips, before a certain calmness creeps in, a steady breath, and the hand now holds the cup of coffee, firmly, lips attached to porcelain before taking a sip. It's no magic, nor cure – but it makes her feel better, _physically._ The hot liquid burns her tongue, her palate, but it's a sensation she can bear. She is still cold and shivering and it's too early to make him coffee, so she goes back, quietly, her footsteps light on the floor. Settling the cup on her nightstand, Kate lies down, hoping he is not that light of a sleeper and she won't wake him up.

He opens one eye lazily, but it's the ticklish sensation of a strand of hair against his cheek that grounds him, giving a more exact idea of what is happening. It's not like he is a light sleeper, no. He just happened to wake up in the middle of the night to a half-empty king-size bed, with no sign of her presence, except for the crumpled sheets. _Maybe it really was just a dream. _He then spent some time drifting in and out of sleep, until a set of steps pulled him out, definitively, of that dreamlike state.

There's a certain beauty in darkness, in the ambivalence of shapes and forms as anything and everything exists solely as what you make it out to be. From behind curtains, light can barely enter the room, but he doesn't need the clarity of sight to know she's not okay. Her syncopated breathing gives her away, even though she tries to remain quiet, pulling her knees to her chest, as if the extra pressure against her ribcage would somehow regulate the intake of air. Cursing under her breath, she clenches her eyes shut, a forceful plea to silence her thoughts, but it's another set of flashbacks that gives her an adrenaline rush. Damn. She is downright _afraid _of letting go, of falling back asleep in case she has another nightmare –

He can hear the tiniest shift of her body, the urgency of every breath – like color on a black and white photograph, every little noise pops out against the silence of the room – but he remains quiet, hardly able to retain the question on the tip of his tongue. Rick lets his body sway to the left, shoulder blades pressed firmly against the mattress as he falls lying on his back. _He is loudly not asking. _

_Shit. _He's awake and suddenly, knowing that makes it a thousand times worse. Because he is not his usual inquisitive self; he is letting her have her space, which seems threatening in its transience as they both know he's going to break it, the impending question _almost_ hanging in the space between them. But she is the one who gives in, turning to face him. She is the one willing to ask for help.

"Rick –"


End file.
